In 10 years of Taco Night, I've never been so disappointed.

Words cannot describe the pain you have caused your mother and me. What did I do to deserve being treated this way in my own home on such a cherished night? Taco Tuesday, Josh—the one evening we gather as a family, turn off the television, and enjoy beef tacos, together. But you have brought shame on this house, son. Great shame.

Do you want to make a fool out of me?

You used to be such a good boy, content with the taco toppings and serving sizes I provided. But you've changed. The son I raised would never have asked to have chicken instead of taco meat, because that son would have been considerate of the fact that his mother slaved over that ground beef. Slaved, Joshua.

Instead of having a nice, pleasant evening, your sisters have to spend hours comforting your mother, because even after being warned, you still possessed the audacity to complain that when you bite into the top of the taco all you get is lettuce and salsa. Where the hell do you get off? You know Taco Tuesday isn't an anything-goes–type atmosphere. Save that for Frisbee Friday.

What if we had had company? What if they had sat here and watched you blatantly mock your mother's new Tito Chihuahua taco holders? They would have thought that I'd failed as a father. And perhaps they would have been right.

You completely crossed the line when you suggested we try making taco salad. Taco salad on Taco Night? You should be ashamed of yourself. If your grandfather were alive I...I don't even want to think about what he'd say.

Is something going on at school that I don't know about? Are you on drugs? Because you'd have to be to even consider going over my head and putting more than one dollop of sour cream on your taco. In this house, mister, we take one dollop, plop it on the center of the taco, and spread the sour cream with the backs of our spoons.  None of this two- dollop crap.  You know what happens with two dollops? There isn't enough sour cream left for seconds. I know you think you're above the law because the entire world revolves around you, but don't forget, Joshua Michael Becker, you have a family, and they love sour cream just as much as—if not more—than you do.

Your sisters look up to you, Josh. Do you honestly want them to think it's "cool" to want soft shells when everyone else is using hard shells? Yes, I know the shell openings don't have a lot of space between them and they sometimes crack, but you're 16 years old now. Sixteen!

If you want to be treated like an adult, eat your tacos like one.

And by the way, where did all this "let's try cheddar instead of American cheese" BS come from, anyway? Who is filling your head with this crap? Is it that friend of yours, Diego? Well, if you think for one second that I care how Diego does Taco Night at his house then you can think again. If you want to go live with Diego and his parents, who allow beans or guacamole or God knows what on their tacos, be my guest. But as long as you live in my house, you're going to live by my Taco Night rules.

Look, I don't even like tacos. I didn't even know what a taco was until you came home one Tuesday after school and said, "Dad, let's have tacos." I was perfectly fine with Spaghetti Tuesdays. But because we wanted to support you, I got on the Internet and printed a taco recipe for your mother. Now there has to be some give and take here. That's how the world works. What do you think happens in the real world when you mouth off to your boss and try to tell him how to do his job by suggesting the meat not go in first because sometimes the bottoms of the taco shells get soggy and the meat just falls right through? You're gone. Out on the street. Digging for tacos in the Dumpster.

You're my son, Josh. My flesh and blood. Even if you ran out of this house and hopped on a bus to Baja Fresh, I would still love you. I just hope you look back on this someday when you have your own house and your own son, and realize how you broke your old man's heart that one sad, sad Taco Tuesday.